


she hates you and covets you in spades

by JoelleDHaskell



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternia-Focused, Black Romance, Caliginous Romance, F/F, POV Second Person, Predator/Prey, Slavery, Troll Romance, Trolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-20
Updated: 2011-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoelleDHaskell/pseuds/JoelleDHaskell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You hated her, really thrillingly hated her. You had to make her pay. You had to collect her like a prize, stable her like livestock, keep her polished and dumb in a glass case like a pretty red jewel and make a mockery of her, to stoke that spitting forge of anger and strength and then to muzzle it, to fill her heart with enough of the blackest oil that she would go ablaze at the smallest flick of a match.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tirala

**Author's Note:**

> There are some passing references to violence and sexuality, but nothing described or otherwise explicit.

Your name is Tirala Saalis, a mere maroonblood of seven solar sweeps. You once held interest in video games and sports and sparring, challenging your wits, strength and reflexes to hopefully be considered worthy of consideration as a warrior in any of Alternia's mighty fleets, as adulthood looms in just a sweep. But not anymore.

Your lusus is unimportant now that she's dead. When you had a computer, your trolltag was flightyProngs and you like> to type with a sharpene> e>ge.

Fitting your caste, you have psychic powers, which you try to ignore in favor of physical prowess in an effort to avoid telekinetic slavery. As such, your ability is moot and undeveloped.

Your interests were culled along with most of your lawn ring and its inhabitants. Rumors of potential revolt attracted the attention of a nearby ship, which happily took on the task of slaughtering most of your neighbors, and enslaving the rest. Including you. Especially you.

The ship's blueblood captain Skytta Mettsa took a dark shining to you. It was hate at first sight. Her feelings reached their blackest apex when you managed to beat the shit out of her one night, and absconded from the ship, which still held low to the surface.

Well, you actually hadn't intended to do that. You had hoped to slip out of the brig and jump overboard unnoticed, but she was fortunately, or unfortunately, awake at the time, and got in the way. You could have killed her, but you were in a hurry and needed to get the hell out of there before anyone else came by.

If you had killed her, a legislacerator would have been dispatched to hang you. Or maybe they would have just drafted you into the army early.

Instead, she hunts you. Skytta hates you and you covets you in spades. She runs you ragged across the landscape. You use every ounce of endurance and skill to run and hide, hide and run. She does not give you a head start, and herds you away from the cities where you might hole yourself up with sympathetic lowbloods and stand an honest chance of slipping out of her grasp for good.

She makes certain that you hate her just as much in return. She makes certain that you are powerful enough to prove a worthy rival, for her association with one of your vile blood could not possibly prosper in the eyes of her peers if such a peasant were also weak.

You hate her and hate that she stole everything out from under you, came along and smashed your tiny little window of freedom before inevitable conscription. You are tired and hungry, wounded and exhausted at all times, far from civilization and lonely without your lusus. You know every time you're forced to sleep openly under the blistering sun, or not sleep at all as horrendous nightmares haunt your sopor-starved mind, that all of it is her fault.

And you know that if she had not waxed black for you, the rest of your life would instead be spent, at best, as a foot soldier, fodder for the front lines, or a slave. At worst, a living graft to one of the ships, your brain reaped for all its latent telekinetic energies, using you as fuel until your neurons fried, cutting your short life even shorter.

She hunts you, but she keeps you alive. She makes it clear that if you refuse to run, refuse to rebel and rival against her, that she will kill you without remorse.

When she does catch up to you, your recapture is not guaranteed. You make yourself a viciously fitting nemesis and fight her off for all you're worth. You leave her a mess, and slip away before the ship catches up to recover her. Your brutality against her dignity leaves her enraged. You blatantly refuse to kill her outright. You tell her so each time.

But sometimes, she does get you. Her anger, or impatience, overrides her aristocratic love of an honorable hunt on foot, and she simply rolls over your position with soldiers on hand. And sometimes her skill and strength simply matches your own.

She takes you aboard and leaves you in solitary. She does not have you perform menial tasks, though she could try, but you would only escape that much quicker. She ensures that no one else kill you, or even squabble with you. She jealously hides you away from them to prevent you from forming a rivalry with anyone else. Once though, she took devilish delight in demeaning you by dragging you along to some detestable blueblood ball, dressing you up and hanging you off her arm opposite her matesprit, freshly-bandaged wounds and all.

Your despairing lack of significant contact with other trolls has left your quadrants gaping. Sometimes you get a little untrollishly lonely and make a stupid pale comment toward her, and she puts you to the irons for your disgustingly platonic solicitation.

Her mistake of not giving you time for red romance nearly proved fatal when a drone visited the ship. She chose a similarly single greenblood and forced you both to fake a matespritship for the sake of filling the filial pails. You doubt such an insincere union will ever produce progeny. It all made you hate her a little more, in a little less of a romantic way and more of a real, raw desire to someday see her dead.

You dig a little deeper and try to mentally club yourself out of it, hold your own hands and pretend to stand to the side of yourself and talk yourself down to concupiscent hate again. You remind yourself how all the ways the bitch makes you miserable are reasons to keep her around.

But it's a little hard to forget how life felt for most of those seven sweeps. This black romance may be all you know now, but you knew normal life before, one not wholly eclipsed by the obsession of another.

You sometimes wish you had another rival, but you know they could never challenge and strengthen you the way she does.

They could never humiliate and weaken you the way she does.

You hate her with all your heart, but you don't know if you hate her the right way anymore.


	2. Skytta

Your name is Skytta Mettsa, a blueblood of nearly eight solar sweeps. You hold a variety of interests not limited to the noble art of archery, hunting (trolls and beasts alike), slave trade and mercenary culling. Admittedly your interests tend to overlap.

Your lusus is a noble and deadly hound fit for the hunt. Your trolltag is obstinateHuntress and You ten} to outfit your wor}s with the symbol prou}ly worn on your vest.

While time draws near for you to take your war ship and join the Alternian military proper, you find yourself enjoying the power and adventure of scumming the surface for scrubs. You gladly volunteer your culling services to trim the weak and mutinous from your glorious race, an act which strengthens the whole. Everyone's got a job to do.

You sometimes pick out the less unfit survivors as slaves, either selling them to the adults or keeping them to serve as your own crew.

Speaking of slaves, you feel almost ashamed to admit your caliginous lust toward one of your acquisitions from the peasantry. You had heard a rumor of some lowbloods harboring revolutionary ideas and charged at the opportunity for prestige. You directed your ship to their paltry lawn ring and slaughtered most of them. You could have killed them all without repercussion, but a few caught your eye. Some had skills useful in servitude. One other...

It was unfathomable, how suddenly it came. You looked down upon her, her symbol the color of rust with a hint of mud, and her returning gaze burned with fury instead of fear. The red flush on her face, in her tears and eyes seared into you as it simultaneously disgusted you.

More importantly, her sign is a circle pierced by an arrow, while yours is that of the regal bow itself. If the term "fated arch-nemesis" holds truth anywhere, it could not have been truer here.

More importantly still, her defiance shot from her eyes yet simmered just below the surface. It did not boil over. She did not shout, rage or try to run - not yet. She allowed herself to be taken aboard, and even turned her gaze to the floor, as if finding appropriate deference before her masters.

Perhaps that was all a ruse, an elaborate game to enshroud her motivations, from which she could leap and catch you by surprise.

(You fully doubt she engineered any of this. Its accident both infuriated you and ingrained your belief in fate.)

The rustblood sat complacently in the brig, wordless and a little listless. You almost forgot you had killed her lusus in the attack.

It was a day, or maybe a few, that she performed the role of captive well; that is, she didn't do anything but sit there and eat her gruel without complaint.

On the last night, you were out of your recuperacoon on deck, unarmed and without your hound by your side. She had escaped her cell and was only trying to get away. That she did not intend to fight you at all, that you only happened to lay in her path to freedom, and that she beat you without reverence to your class, like a savage hoofbeast trampling a hapless fowl in a blind stampede - how undignified! Honorless, unthinkable and enraging!

She didn't even bother to kill you either. She knocked you unconscious and absconded to the woods below. You were found and revived by your crew once they awoke. It was really just sickening.

You hated her, really thrillingly hated her. You had to make her pay. You had to collect her like a prize, stable her like livestock, keep her polished and dumb in a glass case like a pretty red jewel and make a mockery of her, to stoke that spitting forge of anger and strength and then to muzzle it, to fill her heart with enough of the blackest oil that she would go ablaze at the smallest flick of a match.

No one could hate her like you could. No one could possibly treat her to such a delectable rivalry. You would do her a favor by directing your cruel energies onto her. She stewed in a color many steps below your own. Few could hope for a romance of such prestige.

And yet, for all she would gain, you had so much to lose in this pursuit. A stupid maroonblood who can barely bend spoons, why waste your time on that? Your officers and, really, anyone who respects the hemospectrum, would rightly scoff at your choice of kismesis.

But you could not turn away, when hate, lust and fate had consumed you so. You would make her better than what she was, worthy of you in return. As you had culled the weak from her neighborhood, so would you cull everything that made her weak now. You would attack her, challenge and sculpt her, carve away what softness remained and leave nothing but sharpened steel and fire.

You hunted her down, finding yourself angry at and fond of her skillfully elusive nature. How she managed to survive in the wilderness and avoid your sights for so long amazed you. It gave you hope for her. It made you want to tear her down that much more. You almost wanted to feign her victory, to pretend that she had truly escaped and you had lost interest. It would have made her sudden second capture and ensuing despair so much sweeter.

There was no need to bother. She proved damnably quick on her own. You were then glad not to offer leeway, even if a lie, because the only way to shape her into the nemesis you needed was to push her to the limit. She had to starve, bleed and long for capture again just to know rest - and to not turn herself in anyway. If she continued to run, you'd know she was the one. You will never settle for any rival that submits themselves to you. A bared neck receives arrows, not mercy.

You did catch up to her - and she defeated you again. This time your defeat was more... palatable to bear. You knew as the violence turned to lust that her hate for you was right. You had risked a lot by following her on foot while your ship lagged behind. She could have killed you, and you would have commended her for it with your dying breath. You would never plead for mercy. It all was a test of her emotions.

Not that it didn't enrage you still when she left you too wounded to move afterward and fled once again. If there is a word for happy anger, you need to learn it.

You chased her down still and when you finally figured she was reasonably near death you just swept by and fished her up. Your crew were getting pretty bored by then anyway and it would be dreadful to let them turn on each other for lack of other targets.

Again, your pronged paramour went in chains without fuss, her energy spent this round. This time you sent her to solitary. You wanted to put that fire in blinders and direct its heat onto you and you only. You wanted her attention, you wanted her to char you blacker. You let no one else mistreat her. You even had them fix up some of her wounds (you really couldn't let her die, of course, that would be unconscionable).

Unfortunately, your strategic sequestering of your trophy was almost too costly. A surprise visit from the imperial drone (though when are they not surprise visits?) forced you to make a hasty decision to preserve her. You picked out one of your greenblooded crewmembers who also lacked a matesprit and paired them off. None of you liked this and the genes from something practically nonconsensual will probably fall to the bottom of the bucket and never see legacy, but the drone is not a patient monster and you had two important lives to save. You hope to find her a flushed partner in earnest before the next visit.

Too soon will you reach maturity and leave your home world behind, going forth in grand galactic conquest. You had so enjoyed your childish games here. At least you may now leave with your concupiscent quadrants sufficiently filled.


End file.
